


I Thought Of Angels

by themightyfall



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-02-10 19:38:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12918852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themightyfall/pseuds/themightyfall
Summary: Patrick Stump is your average 21 year old musician from Chicago, except he’s not average, he’s not 21, and he’s not from Chicago. Oh yeah— and he’s an angel.





	1. Borders

**Author's Note:**

> Go check us out @angeltrickau on tumblr!

It was a sweltering day in Wilmette, probably the hottest it had ever been. Swarms of people wearing t-shirts and loose khaki shorts ducked into and out of the shops that neatly lined the road, hastening to find scraps of cool air. They all moved in a lazy, exhausted fashion, as if the heat was physically pressing down on them, as if God themself was sitting on the suburb. Nevertheless, a young man clad in ripped blue jeans and a navy blue hoodie strode quickly, head down, across the street. His hair, the color of wet sand, was swept back into a baseball cap fairly unsuccessfully, as strands of it fell into his face. He made sure to keep his eyes glued to the asphalt to prevent attracting anyone’s attention, which he had the tendency to do. And so he stared at the boiling blacktop, watching the heat rise in sleepy coils, until his ambling thoughts were disrupted by a hard shove. 

“Hey! Watch where you’re going, kid!” exclaimed a rather large, round man who bore a striking and unsettling resemblance to a Red Delicious apple. The boy, startled, glanced up from his intent gaze on the ground. As soon as his eyes connected with those of Apple Man, the whole world seemed to melt away. The boy’s eyes were nebulae, fireworks against the pitch darkness of infinite space. They held at their center a rich aqua green, plucked straight from the foaming ocean, which faded out into a ring of sky blue; the exact shade of the sky on a day where the clouds dance and heaven seems close enough to touch. The boy didn’t have to say a word. His eyes radiated enough power to express “I’m sorry” and “No, I’m not” and every other existing emotion all at the same time. 

“I… uh… I…” managed Apple Man, before quickly turning back to his conversation with his equally apple-esque wife.

The boy pulled the acrylic glasses (which, of course, he didn’t actually need) from his hoodie pocket and slid them onto his face. He really did hate looking humans straight in the eye, but his glasses were just so bulky and he loathed wearing them, even if they did protect the humans.  
THEY had warned him many times the damage eye contact did to mortals. “זמר, מביא אור”, he had been scolded the first time this had occurred, maybe a couple millennia ago, “You mustn’t ever look a mortal directly in their eyes. If you do, they will either fall helplessly in love with you, or die”.

Of course, In 21st century America, the boy didn’t go by זמר, מביא אור anymore— he hadn’t for some twelve centuries. His new name, the one that had been chosen by THEM, was Patrick Stumph.

Panicked now, Patrick ducked into the nearest shop, not bothering to read the awning above the door, which happened to have spelled out upon it “Borders Bookstore” in faded, white lettering. A bell produced a tinny jingle, one that seemed just as exhausted as the world outside, as Patrick shoved open the door.

“Hello,” said a lanky woman sitting at the checkout desk in a monotone voice, “Welcome to Borders. Is there anythi—“  
“No, sorry. I mean, thanks. I mean, I can do this. I’ve got it. Thank you,” stuttered Patrick, without even turning his gaze toward her.  
He sped, eyes lowered once again, through rows upon rows of books: vapid romance stories for middle aged women, young adult fantasy novels, children’s picture books about anthropomorphic animals making poor decisions. Usually he would love to take all day exploring what the humans had “discovered” recently and what were hot topics in their society, but now was not the time. He stopped abruptly, slightly winded, at a sign that read: “Non-Fiction: 1) Biographies 2) Science and Nature 3) Music”.

“No dude, Neurosis isn’t just metal… they’re like, hardcore punk doom metal or something”. Patrick glanced over at the speaker, a young man in a Metallica t-shirt, perhaps Patrick’s human age.  
“No way!” countered his friend, a thin, short-ish, awkward looking boy with a mess of chocolate curls adorning his head, as he flipped nonchalantly through a book, “Neurosis is, like, avant garde sludge metal with British Invasion punk influence! You can totally hear, like, The Smiths in there!”

Without realizing it, Patrick had begun to walk towards the bickering pair, and before he could stop himself, blurted “Actually, Neurosis is hardcore doom metal and avant-garde sludge metal. They’re both. They defy genre classification, really”.

Both boys stared at Patrick as if he were an alien (which, by the human definition, he sort of was). Then, the taller one spoke: “Dude… you’re totally right! See, this guy knows what the hell he’s talking about!”  
The curly-haired boy rolled his eyes, and shrugged. “I guess,” he said, crossing his arms and looking Patrick up and down.  
Patrick winced at his own idiocy. Fuck. Why did he have to insert himself into this conversation? And why did it still feel like it was the right thing to do?

Truthfully, Patrick hadn’t been bluffing about Neurosis. Music had fascinated him first when he heard Louis Armstrong play the trumpet in a jazz club back in 1922. He spent the next seventy-nine years studying American music, from jazz and soul to punk and screamo. He knew just about every artist, when they existed, and what genre they played. Recently, he had become very interested in the underground hardcore scene and how it related to the American youth’s pent up aggression towards their government and their elders. He was even a part of a few bands, drumming for all of them. 

After a seemingly eternal silence, Patrick mumbled “Well… I better be going now… y’know, books and stuff…”  
“No, wait,” said the curly-haired boy, causing Patrick to freeze in his tracks. “Do you play? Music, I mean?”  
“Uh, yeah,” said Patrick, “I play drums” and, as an afterthought: “Also I sing, sometimes”.  
“You play guitar?”  
“I do,”  
“You have one?”  
“I do,”  
“Well, uh…” the curly-haired boy trailed off, clearly searching for the right words. “My friend and I were thinking of starting a band, y’know, and we’re holding auditions on Saturday. You should come! Me and Pete, we’d love to—”  
“Pete?”  
“Yeah, my friend. Pete Wentz. Heard of him?”  
Patrick’s eyes widened. Who in the Chicago underground scene hadn’t heard of him? Pete Wentz was the debonair prince of punk in Chicago hardcore, the bassist for Arma Angelus, among other bands, and the absolute coolest dude you could ever hope to meet. If you wanted to make it big in music, you needed someone like Pete. 

“Yeah, rings a bell, I think,” Patrick said coolly, attempting to play off how star- struck he was and failing miserably. “Sure, I’ll come. You got a drum set there?”  
“Yeah. But bring your acoustic. I wanna hear you sing.”  
“But… I’m a drummer,” Patrick protested weakly.  
“Just bring your acoustic, okay?”  
Patrick reluctantly nodded, fearing his chance to meet Pete Wentz would vanish if he didn’t.  
“Cool. See you around, then”. The boy and his friend started to leave, but he turned around abruptly.  
“Joe Trohman, by the way,” he said, holding out his hand.  
“Um… Patrick Stumph,” said Patrick, reaching to shake it.  
“Patrick,” said Joe, seemingly pleased. “See you on Saturday”.


	2. Ocean Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We’re back!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t forget to follow us @angeltrickau on tumblr!

Those eyes. They were all Joe could see. They appeared everywhere- in the walls, on the television, in his cup of ramen noodles. Most especially, though, they appeared in his dreams. The gentle aquamarine, the color of tide pools at noon, of heavenly rain, of the rushing waves, flooded his senses at all times. That hue, the sparkling energy and the feeling of pure anxiety that came with them— they were all there, picturesque and beautiful and awkward and terrible, just as they had been when he first saw them. That color swarmed his thoughts, coated his brain, caused him to melt. Everything was that shade. There was no escape, and frankly, Joe enjoyed it in a warped, odd sort of way.

 

“Shitshitshitshitshit…” muttered Patrick, rummaging desperately through the clutter of his dresser drawers. Solid-colored shirts and blue jeans flew haphazardly through the air to land on his bedroom floor; piles of hoodies and underwear accumulated in the corners. Patrick tore the comforter off of his bed, digging around under the pillows, the sheets, the mattress. Nothing. He slammed open the bathroom door, fervently checking the faux-marble countertops with both his eyes and his hands. He tore the shower curtain back, causing the rod to detach from the wall and clatter to the floor. Still nothing. 

“Shit!” he exclaimed, sinking in resignation to the ground. He dug around in his pockets for the fourteenth time as a last resort. Still nothing. He let out an exasperated sigh and leaned his head back against the wall, running his hands anxiously through his hair. Where were they? If he had really lost them, it’s not like he could just go get a replacement. And what damaged had he already caused by misplacing them? His wings, an almost iridescent clementine shade, flapped of their own accord out of sheer panic. He grabbed on to the left one, and set to smoothing out the fine, peachy feathers with his fingers in an attempt to calm himself: his ritual practice for fuck-ups. Shit. How was he supposed to fix this? And, the most detestable thought of all, what would THEY say?

 

Joe held the glasses tenderly, as if they were made of tissue paper, and turned them over and over in his hands. They were simple enough; bottle-thick lenses with basic black frames, but in some way, he felt— and he wasn’t sure how or why— they were sacred. His fingers, which were fairly thin to begin with, and rather dexterous from years of guitar-playing, felt suddenly like bulky sausages that could crunch the fragile glasses in an instant. Gingerly, he lifted the glasses to his eyes in experimentation, but dropped them almost immediately. Now, clutching his curls, Joe realized he had a splitting headache.  
As he rose to get some painkillers from the kitchen cabinet, grumbling under his breath, he recounted what had happened at the audition yesterday. That boy from the bookstore—Patrick, if Joe’s memory didn’t fail him—had rushed in when he was called, clutching the neck of his acoustic guitar like it was a life preserver. He kept adjusting his hat, running his hands through his hair, and, strangely, reaching to touch his back as they asked him questions. The anxiety radiating off of him was almost palpable. 

“Is it cool if I put my glasses down?” he had asked, before placing them on a plastic collapsible table. If he was going to ask if it was okay to do everything, Joe thought to himself, he certainly did not want this dude in the band. To be honest, he was beginning to regret inviting him, but he’d already convinced Pete that this guy was worth watching out for. When they had met at the Borders the other day, Joe could sense that Patrick really knew his stuff about music. Still, the idea of letting Pete down upset him, and he worried that he had been wrong. 

Joe was as far as one could possibly be from wrong. When Patrick opened his mouth, both he and Pete were immediately taken aback. Patrick had a smooth voice, but with elements of roughness and rage that were especially surprising from a man of his meekness, not to mention his stature. He had infused in his voice a million different musical styles, some of which probably didn’t even exist. He was, quite plainly, excellent, and Joe and Pete agreed that he could be truly incredible with some professional training. It was clear that this kid could do it all- sing, play guitar, even write melodies; he played one of his original songs, which had been punchy and powerful. And, as had been mentioned in the bookstore, he was a fantastic drummer to boot. He could play drums like nobody’s business, tapping out rhythms faster and harder than seemingly possible for a human. 

“He’s really fucking good, dude,” Pete had whispered to Joe during the audition. “Like, really fucking good. He’s just got a musical mind, y’know? Like… like his brain is wired for this shit”.  
Joe just nodded. He was fixated on the boy standing before them, putting his whole being into every single note he played. After what seemed like an eternity and also no time at all, Patrick finished his set. He immediately fixed his eyes on the ground in front of him, and, just like that, the lion was replaced with the lamb from before.  
“W-was that good?” he asked, as if he had no concept of how talented he was. 

“That was—” Joe couldn’t come up with an expletive strong enough to describe what it was, which was fine, because Pete had already started talking over him.  
“Fucking awesome, dude,” said Pete. “I’m not gonna lie, that was pretty badass. We’ll give you a call, ‘kay?”  
Patrick nodded, looking up for the first time. He finally seemed satisfied with himself, his cheeks turning bright pink from the compliment.  
“Thanks!” he said amicably, looking over the top of their heads.  
Joe shook himself off. 

“Yeah,” he said, “thanks for coming, dude. We’ll get back to you soon. Expect a call by…“  
For a split second, not even long enough to say “One, Mississippi”, Joe and Patrick locked eyes. Suddenly, Joe was swimming in the Mediterranean, laughing hysterically, running his hands along the softest fabric he had ever felt, watching a fire dance under a moonlit sky.  
“By…”  
“This time next week,” Pete said, nudging Joe with his elbow, and giving him his signature what-the-fuck-are-you-doing look.  
“Cool,” said Patrick, staring at the tile again. “Thanks”. He left the room just as quickly and anxiously as he had entered, leaving his glasses on the table where he had placed them.

“Wait, Patrick, you forgot—“ Pete called out. When he ran into the hall, though, the boy was gone, as if he had simply disappeared. Pete re-entered the room, staring at the glasses he clutched in his hands. After a brief moment of pause, he tossed them to Joe. 

“Can you get these back to him?” he asked.  
“I… I don’t…” stuttered Joe.  
“Great! Thanks dude,” Pete’s mouth twisted into a mischievous grin, and he clapped Joe on the back.  
“Well, I gotta get going. Playing a show tonight with Arma in the city”. He hefted his backpack onto his shoulder, giving Joe a two-fingered salute and a wink before striding out the door.

Joe remained, sitting alone, cradling the glasses in his palms, watching the pulsating waves of turquoise and cyan that existed only in his head, and feeling a spark of infatuation flickering in his chest.

 

Joe’s headache had faded to a dull throb, and he figured he should start trying to find this guy Patrick and return his glasses to him. He was probably walking around, Joe chuckled to himself, bumping into walls and shit. That mental image made him smile from ear to ear, as he considered the possibility of that awkward, tiny, adorable man walking face-first into a wall. Joe shook his head. No. Patrick was not adorable. He was a normal guy who he barely knew. Besides, he probably had a girlfriend or something. With his face, demeanor, and talent, Joe told himself, he was probably a regular chick magnet. Still, as a man, objectively, he was attractive. Of course, that didn’t mean Joe liked Patrick or anything. That would be crazy.


	3. Apartment #427

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens!! Hope you enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t forget to follow us @angeltrickau on tumblr if you enjoy!

Joe Trohman stared up at the house number on the building, apprehensively passing the glasses from hand to hand. His eyes, which usually held a spark of witty mischief, suddenly seemed loath and afraid, and his brow was creased with worry. Why the hell was he so nervous? All he had to do was walk into the building, climb some stairs, knock on the door, and return them to Patrick. Still, he felt as though a snake was wrapped around his lungs, squeezing ever tighter, and worms wriggled in the pit of his stomach. He wiped the cold sweat from his left hand onto his jeans, then stood up as straight as possible. 

Taking an awkwardly deep breath, Joe tried desperately to summon the courage to enter the building. He took one step forward, but the apartment seemed to shift backwards, as if running away from him. Frustrated with himself and his nonsensical anxiety, Joe finally stormed into the old brick building, clutching the glasses tightly and biting down hard on his lower lip. As he climbed the stairs, cursing the fact that this apartment building had no elevator, he read the numbers he had scrawled on his hand: Apt #427.

It had taken him a solid hour and a half of flipping through the phonebook to find Patrick’s number, and another four days to get ahold of the boy to ask for his address. Pete had told Patrick to expect a call within the week, and with the way he’d been acting at the audition, he should’ve been jumping for the phone every time it rang. Joe had already complained to Pete about this, but Pete didn’t seem to care.  
“Look, dude,” he’d said, shrugging and stuffing his hands in his pockets, “I just asked you to return this guy’s glasses, not to fucking marry him or something. It isn’t a big deal”. At this remark, Joe had gone quite pink and punched his friend in the shoulder. Although he didn’t want to admit it, this was a big deal to him. He didn’t know why, but it was. 

Now Joe stood facing the door, the gold numbers on which read 427. The 4, however, hung slightly askew, so that it looked more like an “A” that was missing its left leg. As he raised his fist to knock on the door, Joe tasted something metallic on the tip of his tongue. He pressed his forefinger to his lip, and it came away red. Shit. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and rapped on the wood three times. 

Three seconds later, a heavy crash came from behind the door, followed by a loud “Fuck!”, and then the sound of pounding footsteps. The door swung open, revealing Patrick wriggling into a navy blue hoodie—the same one he’d been wearing at the audition—that was far too large for him. His sandy hair stuck up in tufts, as if he’d just rolled out of bed. Pulling the sweater over his stomach, he glanced up at Joe’s hair, then immediately down at his own feet. 

“Oh,” he said, in a tone that was as enthusiastic as seemingly possible for him, “Hey Joe. What’s up?” Patrick spoke in a gentle, mellifluous, lilting voice that made Joe’s own sound like sandpaper on a chalkboard. He raked his fingers through his hair in an attempt to smooth it, but only succeeded in making things fluffier. 

“Um… we— I mean, you—” Joe floundered. Great job, real great, he scolded himself. “Your glasses,” he finally managed. “You left them… at the… place”. 

Patrick smiled at the goofy, bumbling words, and then suddenly the sun was shining directly in Joe’s eyes. Patrick held out his hand, and it took Joe a second to process that he was supposed to give over the glasses. He was still blinking away the brightness. He pressed the frames which he had studied so fiercely into the boy’s palm, and tried to make eye contact. After all, he wasn’t a pussy, he was Joe freaking Trohman dammit, he was a man, and the worms were now having a full-on rave in his stomach. Meanwhile, Patrick’s eyes flicked nervously around, catching everything but Joe’s gaze. The transaction was complete, and now the two stood listlessly in the hallway, unable to look at each other. It was done, Joe told himself. He’d done his job, and now he could leave.  
“I should probably—“  
“Do you want to come in?” Patrick’s eyebrows were raised, and he held the door open expectantly.  
“Oh…” Joe said, head cocked in surprise. “Uh, sure”.  
Patrick smiled again, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his cheeks blushing just a touch, and Joe was again dumbfounded.  
For the first time that day, Joe smiled back. 

The apartment was a mess. Patrick tried to scoop dirty clothes off of the floor and dirty dishes into the sink as he welcomed Joe inside. “Sorry about the state of things around here,” he grunted, lifting a two-foot tall stack of mail from the front table while pinning three sweaters under his right arm.  
“ It’s okay. Do you want me to help you out or something?” Joe asked, taking a seat at the equally cluttered table in the kitchen.  
“No, no,” Patrick said, shaking his head and simultaneously dropping the magazines he held under his chin, “It’s cool. I just—“ he was interrupted by two of his sweaters slipping to the floor “—shit—wasn’t expecting company”. Joe blinked and raised his eyebrows, his lips forming a confused half-frown. “Okay,” he said hesitantly, “just let me know if you do need help”. 

Patrick waddled into his bedroom with his collection of items and dumped them onto the bed. As soon as he had finished that, he promptly smacked himself in the face. He had been so unbelievably awkward in the hallway that he was sure Joe suspected something wasn’t normal about him. What 21 year old human says “the state of things” or “company”? Didn’t they say that they “have friends over” now? One more stupid slip of the tongue, and he’d have to move again. Still, he consoled himself, this wasn’t as bad as that time when he’d called a girl “lamb-chop” back in 1991 and had to move to Arizona for five years as a result.

Patrick could feel his wings flapping against his back, struggling to be freed from the confines of his hoodie. Part of him wanted to release them, in all of their clementine glory, to walk out into the kitchen and just say “Hey guess what? I’m from heaven. A real angel. Yup, that’s right. A seraph. Wings and everything. Soak it in, asshole”. Frankly, he was tired of hiding. Two millennia of acting like a mortal can really wear a cherub out, especially when those mortals are… the way they are. But Patrick had never exposed his true form to a human before, and he certainly wasn’t about to start with this guy. 

He ambled back into the kitchen, running his hand through his hair while sliding his glasses back on for the first time in five days. They still felt bulky as ever, simply incorrect on his face, clumsy and obnoxious. He had to willfully resist the urge to remove them again. It was simply too dangerous to do so with a human present. Besides, he told himself, who knew what damage he’d already done without them?

Joe, who had rested his chin on his hand and was staring at the wall, stiffened and sat up straight when Patrick re-entered the room.  
“You know,” he mused, apparently starting to feel a bit more comfortable despite still staring at the wall, “You were pretty kick-ass at that audition”.  
Patrick was caught off guard by this. He knew that he was good, obviously, but to get validation from a human was strangely fulfilling. 

“Oh, thanks. I’ve been playing music for… a long time”. Patrick slid into the chair opposite Joe, folding his hands in his lap and crossing his legs at the ankle.  
“Yeah?” said Joe, leaning forward, “Did your parents play?”  
Patrick squinted, thinking, then nodded. “My dad,” he replied tactfully.  
Joe’s eyes widened. “Mine too!” he said.  
“Ah,” said Patrick absentmindedly, “That’s lovely”. 

Patrick could tell that Joe was desperate to be able to relate to him, but it was incredibly difficult for him to speak to humans. He was constantly walking on eggshells, having to watch his words and topics to fit the times so no one would suspect anything. It was purely exhausting, especially because Patrick had a hard time talking to anyone ever, not just people.

“Well,” Joe said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, “While I’m here, I guess I might as well tell you. Pete and I, we’ve been talking and we think you’d be an awesome singer for the band”.  
This arrested Patrick’s attention immediately. He’d auditioned as a drummer. He had told Joe that he was a drummer.

“I…” Now it was Patrick’s turn to be speechless. “I mean, that’s awesome, but is the drummer spot already filled?”  
“Well, not exactly,” said Joe, “but we know a lot of drummers. I think Pete’s trying to get his friend interested. We just thought that you have a really cool voice. ‘Course, if you don’t want to, I’m sure we can—“  
“Don’t worry about it,” Patrick held both palms out towards Joe, waving his arms in a “stop” motion. “I’ll sing. I just…drumming is kind of my thing, y’know”. 

“Tell you what,” offered Joe, “come to one rehearsal. Just one. After that, I don’t really care what you do. But come to one rehearsal, and we’ll figure it out there, okay?”  
“Sure,” said Patrick, trying to reason with himself. Singing. That wouldn’t be too bad, would it?


	4. First Rehearsal / Summer Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s finally time...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t forget to check us out @angeltrickau on tumblr!

Patrick soaked in every minute detail of Pete Wentz’s house, from the musty scent of the air to the metal band posters plastered to every surface. 

He sat, hands folded in his lap, on a cream-colored sofa which was stained with food and booze and who knew what else. He was absolutely flattered that the humans had found him talented enough to join their band, and he was certainly excited to play with them. Still, the question of being a frontman loomed over his head like a lead halo. Patrick was the opposite of a frontman; quiet, reserved, and, in his own opinion, rather boring. He was pretty sure that nobody wanted him to talk in private, much less on a stage in front of a hundred people. 

He lifted his ragged hat off of his head to run his fingers through his hair, then paused to examine the item. A Chicago Cubs baseball cap: the traditional blue fabric with red and white stitching was faded from over forty years of wear. He’d bought it from a street vendor when he had first moved to Chicago in 1959, hoping it would make him look like a native. Indeed, he’d gotten many comments over the past couple decades about that cap. To be honest, most of them had been negative, and some comments had been so swollen with curses and swears that Patrick had a hard time understanding them. Of course, he had no idea when he bought the cap that the Cubs had a literal curse on them, and one of Patrick’s most vivid memories from the 60’s was when he received a three-week-long scolding from THEM about wearing cursed garments. He liked the cap, though— it represented his new home, the only place that really felt like home, and so he continued to wear it.

As Patrick slid the cap back onto his head, Pete walked back into the room from the kitchen. He strode toward the couch, kicking crumpled up bags of potato chips and aluminum cans out of his way as he went. He plopped down onto the chair opposite Patrick— a red polyester lawn chair, for some reason— and lifted a soda that had been resting in the cupholder to his lips. Taking a swig, Pete’s face wrinkled in disgust, and he immediately dropped the can.  
“That shit’s like two weeks old,” he said roughly, forcing himself to swallow. “Don’t drink it.”

Patrick nodded and adjusted himself uncomfortably, crossing his legs like a polite fifty-year-old woman as Joe ambled in and sunk down into the seat to his right. He leaned back, kicking his legs up on the coffee table as if he owned the place. Pete didn’t seem to mind, but Patrick squinted at the boy’s converse-clad feet in minor distress.

“So,” said Pete, finally breaking the stifling silence, “uh... are we gonna play some fuckin’ music or what?”  
Joe furrowed his brow, seemingly irritated. “Dude,” he said, “aren’t you gonna, like, say hi to Patrick first? Or at least tell him what he’s gonna be doing in the band? I mean this is his first time here, and—“  
“Shut up, Trohman,” Pete said, smirking playfully and leaning back in his lawn chair. “Patrick’s fine. He’s cool. He knows what’s up. Don’tcha, Patty?” Joe scowled, rolling his eyes. For best friends, Patrick thought, they really weren’t too nice to each other. 

“Um,” Patrick hesitated, trying to choose his words carefully, “yeah, sure. But could you not call me ‘Patty’ please? It kinda... gets on my nerves.”  
“Ok, whatever. Pat work for you, then? Rick? Trick? Rickster? Rick and Roll? Ri—“

“Shut the fuck up, Pete!” Joe was leaning forward now, his face turning a bright crimson. His icy blue eyes were staring at Pete with an unusual animosity, burning with frustration. Patrick could feel the anger radiating off of him in scarlet waves, and slid ever so slightly to his left.

“Alright, alright,” said Pete, holding his hands up in surrender, “I don’t know what you have up your ass today, Trohman, but you’re gonna need to find a way to get it out of there.” Then, turning towards Patrick, in a shrill and feminine voice:  
“Hi Patrick! I’m Pete, and this is Joe. Say hi, Joe! We are going to be in a band. You know what a band is, don’t you Patrick?”  
Joe rose to his feet, looking at the door behind him. “I’m leaving,” he said bluntly.  
“Dude!” Pete returned to his normal voice. “I was just playing around! C’mon, stop being such a fucking buzzkill!”  
Joe turned to face him. “Give me one good reason why I should stay here and put up with your bullshit, Wentz.”  
“Joe, c’mon! This’ll be fun! I promise, I was just joking around!”  
Joe shook his head. “I knew this was a bad idea,” he said, shrugging his jacket over his shoulders.  
“Joe—“

“Wait,” Patrick said in a barely audible voice, standing up slowly. Both Joe and Pete froze, and stared at Patrick as if they’d forgotten he was there. “Joe,” Patrick said, speaking as if to a dangerous animal, or perhaps a temperamental child, “you told me—promised me, actually— that we would do one rehearsal. Just one, and then we could be done if we wanted.” Realizing he had arrested the attention of the whole room, Patrick began to shift back and forth on his feet. “I... well, I would like to complete that rehearsal, if that’s alright with you.”  
Joe’s face softened for a second, almost melting as he gazed at Patrick, then stiffened up again. He pursed his lips. “Fine,” he said, tearing off the hoodie and tying it around his waist, “but only ‘cause I’m a man of my word.”

The rest of practice went surprisingly well. The band had a strangely perfect chemistry and a powerful personality, even though they’d only played cover songs so far. Patrick even got to play drums, although they did ask him to sing for most of the time.  
“Don’t get used to it,” Pete said, clapping him on the back and causing him to jump, “My friend Andy is coming in next time on drums, and you’re gonna be on full singing duty, got it?” 

Practice ended not because the three were tired of being around each other, but because Pete had a show later that night and wanted to take a nap. Joe and Patrick were thus left to wander the streets of Chicago, trying to figure out what to do with themselves. It was a Friday evening in early September, and the weather had cooled just enough to make being outside bearable again. Patrick loved autumn, with all its warm shades and comforting smells, and the brisk late-summer breeze carried on it a taste of the months to come. He also loved being able to wear his hoodie without producing visible back sweat from the heat of his wings. Human bodies were annoying that way. 

“So, uh...” Joe started, “What do you wanna do?”  
“I don’t really know,” Patrick said, absentmindedly staring up at the rosy summer sky.  
“Wanna get something to eat? I know a really good pizza place around here.”  
“Yeah, sounds good.”  
“Well I mean, if you don’t want pizza, we can get something else,”  
“I like pizza.” Patrick said. In that moment, he was daydreaming so aggressively that he sounded intoxicated. Joe chuckled, raising his brows and smiling wide.  
“You like pizza?” he sneered, mocking Patrick’s voice.  
Patrick looked at Joe and smiled back, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I like pizza,” he repeated.

It was the best pizza Patrick had ever had, and he’d tried the pizza in Naples in 1890. Something about the atmosphere of the place, the cheap linoleum tiles of the floor, the checkerboard print on the wall, the smell of melted cheese in the air— the mundanity of the restaurant made it feel exquisite. To his surprise, Joe was incredibly easy to talk to. He was a constant joker, forever trying to impress Patrick, but it was endearing. Joe reminded him of a small child trying to win the favor of an older kid, always doing his best to seem cool and mature. 

“I’m thinking of dyeing my hair blond,” remarked Joe at one point, biting into his third slice of pizza. “What do you think? Would it look like I’m a wannabe Tré Cool circa, like, 1997?”  
Patrick popped a french fry into his mouth, trying not to smile.  
“‘Cause I am,” Joe laughed. “I just don’t want anyone to know, y’know?”  
“You gonna gel your hair up too? Then you’d really look like a moron,” Patrick taunted.  
“Hey!” Joe picked up the metal napkin dispenser that sat between them and hurled it at him. “Nobody asked you.”  
“Actually,” Patrick said, ducking the flying dispenser, “you did. Now, clean up the mess you just made.”

Both of them crouched down to pick up the fallen napkins, which had scattered across the floor to mirror the leaves outside.  
As they reached to pick up the same napkin, Joe purposely shoved Patrick, causing him to slip and land on his bottom. 

“Joe!” Patrick exclaimed, half-irritated and barely suppressing his laughter, “you’re a fucking dick!”  
Joe snickered, batting his eyes innocently. “What? I didn’t do anything. You just fell right over!”  
Patrick stood up again and punched him in the shoulder. “You’re a douche,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Joe, “I know.”


	5. One, Mississippi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just in time for the holidays, it’s an extra special chapter of ITOA!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t forget to follow us @angeltrickau on tumblr!

Somehow, Joe and Patrick spent five hours in the restaurant, just talking.   
“Hey,” Joe had said, as they had finally taken the hint from the glowering waitstaff, “Wanna head back to my place?”  
“Sure,” said Patrick. Admittedly, he was exhausted, but he would have felt bad denying Joe’s request. Joe was a nice person, Patrick thought, and a good friend. That was all— a good friend— and he didn’t need to justify himself to anyone. 

The two hadn’t had any alcohol, but were still somehow buzzed off each other. One took turns bumping and nudging the other as they walked, making stupid jokes and giggling like drunk girls. 

“Yo, Patrick, what if, like, we just took a road trip and didn’t tell anyone? Like, not even Pete?” Joe suggested.   
“Nah dude,” Patrick said, “that’s stupid.”  
“No, it’s not!” Joe threw his arms out for emphasis. “We could just hit the road and never come back! We’d never see anyone ever again. It would be awesome.”  
“I don’t know man, that still sounds dumb.”  
“It totally isn’t!”  
“Where would we even go?”   
“I dunno. Hell?” Joe doubled over, laughing at himself, clearly high off the night.

Patrick’s eyes widened. He froze in his tracks, feeling the fuzzy, warm vibes evaporate from his body all at once. Hell. While he was with Joe, he’d forgotten that he wasn’t human, that he had other responsibilities, that he needed to find his purpose and not be goofing off with some group of humans. He was supposed to cure a disease, or end a war, or bring down a dictator, or something. That’s what all the angels were sent here to do: help the human race. He was not supposed to be in a band. How could being in a band help anyone? He was wasting his time, and soon enough he’d be forced back into his former job, and he didn’t want to think about that. 

“Dude?” Joe was staring at Patrick from a short ways up the sidewalk. “Are you good?”  
Patrick looked at Joe’s crystal blue eyes and his disheveled mop of curly brown hair. He looked at his awkward, lanky stature, and his baggy clothes and his tattered converse. No, he thought, I am not good. And in that moment, everything came crashing down on him like a tidal wave. In that moment, Patrick realized what he wanted. 

He was tired of being an angel. He was tired of having all this responsibility. He was tired of having to be perfect all of the time. He didn’t want to cure cancer. He didn’t want to end a civil war. He wanted to wear his cursed baseball cap. He wanted to put those stupid glasses in the garbage. He wanted to play stupid music in a stupid band. He wanted to be with Joe.

“Fuck it,” Patrick muttered. He strode over to the other boy, tearing the glasses from his face and throwing them to the ground, causing the lenses to shatter. Standing on his tiptoes, he cupped Joe’s face in his hands and pressed his lips to his.

Joe recoiled in shock for a split second, his shoulders tense and his eyes wide. After a second, though, he pressed back, his heart dropping to his stomach. One, Mississippi. He closed his eyes. Two, Mississippi. His fingers grazed Patrick’s cheek. Three, Mississippi. Patrick pulled away, and Joe could feel his pulse racing at the speed of light. He couldn’t put together the words he needed. He wanted to say so many things: that Patrick’s eyes had been haunting him for weeks, that he thought he was amazing, that he thought he loved him. Instead, he said: “What the fuck?”

Remorse immediately clawed at Patrick’s stomach. He shouldn’t have done that. He shouldn’t have done that. He’d been impulsive and stupid, and now he’d ruined his own life.  
“I’m... so sorry Joe. I didn’t— I... I shouldn’t have... I gotta go... I’m sorry.” Patrick turned his back to Joe, his face bright pink.  
“No!” Joe protested. “Patrick, wait! I... Patrick!”   
Patrick turned to look back at Joe for a second, One, Mississippi, and continued to walk away. Standing dumbfounded once again, Joe tried to figure out what to do. He could either listen to his head and leave, or listen to his heart and... and...

He did what his racing heart told him He ran to catch up with Patrick, grabbing him by the arm. 

“Patrick!”   
The boy turned again, tears now freely streaming down his face. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to choke back a sob. There were millions of thoughts racing through his head. All Patrick wanted, all he really wanted, was to tell Joe who he was— what he was. He wanted to say it out loud. No, he wanted to scream it. But another weak “I’m sorry,” was all he could manage. 

Joe was bewildered at this sudden display of emotion. He had never seen Patrick be so vulnerable before. He had always seemed so calm and rational among the anxiety of the world, like the focal point of an optical illusion. Joe felt like his soul was shriveling up and dying as he watched the tears roll down Patrick’s cheeks. He couldn’t explain it, but it seemed inherently wrong that a person like Patrick should be crying. 

So Joe did the only thing he knew how to do. He wrapped his arms around the smaller boy and held him close to his chest. He took the Cubs baseball hat off of Patrick’s head, and he put it on his own. He stroked his hair, which looked almost iridescent in the moonlight. It was when he gently kissed his forehead that Patrick finally looked up at him, his face puffy and red from crying. Joe watched the tides roll in and out, in and out, in and out in his eyes, syncing perfectly to the beat of their hearts. He released him slightly, and they locked lips again. One, Mississippi. Two, Mississippi. Three, Mississippi. Four, Mississippi. Five, Mississippi. They separated, and started walking once again towards Joe’s building in a soft, understanding silence. Neither of them felt the need to say anything. They had already said everything. 

“To answer your question,” said Patrick as they approached Joe’s door, “Yeah. I think... I think I’m good.”


	6. Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2018! Here’s chapter 6 of ITOA! Don’t forget to give kudos + comment if you enjoy— it really makes our day!

Joe’s eyes fluttered open. A rusty shade of daylight fell gracefully in bars across the carpet and onto the bed, directly into his eyes. He squinted and furrowed his brow. What time was it? Sighing with morning fatigue, he rolled over onto his right side, and felt his heart promptly drop into his stomach.

There he was: sandy hair ruffled perfectly, ocean eyes closed, lips parted ever so slightly, chest rising and falling in a gentle eight-count rhythm. He was laying on his left, with his right arm draped elegantly over his chest. Damn, he even managed to look pretty while he was sleeping. A renaissance painting, Joe thought. He looked like the subject of a renaissance painting, one by Botticelli or da Vinci. One with subtle, muted tones, and it would be titled something incredibly pretentious, like “Rest” or “Peace” or “Perfection”. People would stand in front of the painting at a museum, and would stare at him and his annoyingly perfect face, and think “Holy shit. No real person looks like that.”  
Joe wanted to lean in and kiss him awake. He wanted to make those ocean eyes open again, wanted to feel that sparkling warmth in his chest again. 

No, Joe told himself, shaking away his meandering thoughts. That’d be creepy. He rolled back over and stared at the wall, resting his head on his left arm. He’d never felt like this about anyone before. He’d certainly never imagined his previous girlfriends as works of art. And wait— did this mean he was gay? Fuck, he really didn’t want to be gay. He stood up, deciding that he would get dressed and think it over. He tugged a shirt over his head, only further mussing his already-disheveled hair. He’d dye it blond, he decided, but definitely not because Patrick had told him that it would look good. He was going to do it because he wanted to. And he wasn’t gay, he told himself, because he still liked girls. Just this one boy... Joe glanced back at him, still in the same position, dramatic and elegant and purely beautiful. This one boy was something else entirely. 

He walked out into the kitchen in a vain attempt to find something to eat. Opening the fridge, he found a half-empty bottle of ketchup, three beers, and a singular apple that was more brown than red. He considered going to buy groceries before Patrick woke up so that he could surprise him with breakfast. This endeavor, although admirable, was cut short by the realization that he only knew how to cook ramen and canned soup. Defeated, Joe sunk into a chair with a plastic cup of tap water, and picked at the loose thread on his sleeves. 

A stretch of time passed, but Joe couldn’t have said how long, before the morning silence was broken by a thud from the bedroom. Joe’s eyes lit up instantly. He’d finally have some company, if nothing to eat. He cracked open the door. “Well, good morning, sunshine,” he said, flashing a slick smile and trying his very best to channel Pete’s charm. After all, Pete’s moves worked on women, and Joe had seen them work on the occasional man, too. Suddenly, his body went cold, and that plastic, debonair smile fell from his face. Patrick was struggling with his hoodie, trying to pull it over a pair of sherbet-colored birds’ wings that sprouted from his back. They were human-sized, though; it seemed as if they could actually be used to fly. They flapped and fluttered in frustration as Patrick muttered something under his breath. 

Patrick’s head whipped around, and his eyes became as large as dinner plates. He whirled to face Joe, yanking his hoodie over his back haphazardly and leaving a few stray clementine feathers peeking out from the hem. He struggled for something to say, stuttering incoherent fragments for a solid twenty seconds.  
“I— Joe! I... y’know, I just couldn’t... I just— I didn’t...”  
Joe felt as though the world had turned inside out, and now everything was molten lava. He couldn’t put what he was seeing together with what he expected to see. His brain short circuited, launching a full fight-or-flight response. “What the hell?” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up and grabbing his head. “Did I just make out with some sort of... some sort of... fucking bird man or something?” This time, it was Joe’s eyes in which tears began to well up. In him had formed a tornado of frustration and confusion and fear and anger, and it was ripping through his insides without mercy. “What the fuck? What the fuck, Patrick?”

Patrick’s head was now buried in his hands, and his forehead creased with frustration. “Joe, I really didn’t want to have it be like this—“   
“What are you?”  
“I can’t—“  
“Patrick.” Joe’s voice became cold and commanding, but his eyes were full of pain and confusion. Tears started to flow; steaming and raw.  
Patrick saw the confusion and anger and heartbreak in his eyes, and it broke him too. He had disobeyed orders from the most powerful being in the universe to spend the night with him. At this point, he had nothing left to lose. He’d probably be sent back Upstairs tomorrow anyway.   
“Okay,” he sighed in resignation, “I’ll tell you.”

——————

“Just my fucking luck,” Joe said, shaking his head and pacing, “Just my fucking luck.”  
Patrick sat on the bed, hunched over and running both hands through his hair repeatedly. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t have told you. You have to understand that.”  
“God himself,” Joe shouted, “told you to come down to Earth and save humanity! I just kissed the man who’s supposed to save the fucking world! Why the hell not!”  
“Themself, actually,” Patrick corrected under his breath.  
“What?”  
“Well, They don’t have a gender. They’re everything and everywhere, remember?”   
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”  
“And,” Patrick interjected, “I’m not supposed to “save humanity”. There are lots of seraphs like me all over, and we’re all supposed to, well, we’re all supposed to do something to help fix the world, to help make things better for people, y’know?”  
“No, I can’t say that I do, Patrick! I have no fucking clue what’s going on right now!”   
“Well, if you’d let me explain for two fucking seconds, maybe you would!” Patrick stood to face Joe, raising his voice for the first time. This uncharacteristic aggression shocked Joe into silence.   
“Fuck this fucking... thing...” Patrick muttered, tearing off the hoodie and throwing it to the floor. He turned his back to Joe again, spreading his wings to their full length.   
“These,” he declared matter-of-factly, “are my wings. They’re annoying as fuck, and I hate them. I’ve hated them since day one. Literally. I wish I could be like you! I... I wish I could get rid of these stupid things! But I can’t! I don’t want all of this fucking responsibility, Joe! Did you think of that? Did you maybe think for one second that these... these... these wings aren’t fun to have, that maybe I don’t want them either? Not to mention those stupid fucking glasses! I hate them, Joe! I hate them!”

Joe’s mouth hung open. All he could see was that renaissance boy from this morning transformed into a ball of fire. The title for this painting, he thought, would be “Anger” or “Fury” or “Reckoning”.   
“Patrick, I—“  
“I disobeyed orders from Them for you, Joe! I did it for you! And you have the nerve to think that I don’t care about you because I didn’t tell you? I care about you more than anything, I think that much is clear!”  
“Hey, look, I’m—“   
“But it doesn’t fucking matter now, does it? Because soon I’m going to be taken back up there, and I’m going to be... I’m going to be...”   
“You’re going to be?” Joe probed.  
“I’m going to be sent to Hell, Joe,” Patrick said gravely. “I’m going to become Fallen.”


	7. Kisses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last time on Keeping Up With Angel!Trick: “I’m going to be sent to Hell, Joe,” Patrick said gravely. “I’m going to become Fallen.”

“Fallen...” Joe narrowed his eyes, sticking his lower lip out ever so slightly in a confused pout. “You say that like I’m supposed to know what it means.”  
Patrick grabbed his head and put his elbows on his knees. “I can’t explain it. It’s like... it’s like... like y’know how in Christianity the devil was a seraph who was banished from heaven?”  
“No. I’m Jewish.”  
Patrick rolled his eyes. “Okay, well it’s kind of like that. Only... only I don’t really know what happens. It’s kinda taboo. Up There, I mean.” He glanced up at the ceiling as if he expected the hand of God to reach through and pluck him off the edge of the bed. 

Joe, meanwhile, stood very stiff and wrung his hands, and felt awfully useless. “Uh,” he said, “I don’t— how do I... how do I help?”  
With this, Patrick shifted his gaze to him, his riptide eyes so full of love that Joe felt like he was swimming. A brief half-smile flashed across his face. “Joe,” Patrick said, voice cracking, “You really are adorably naive.” Joe blushed. He couldn’t tell if that was a compliment or an insult, but the lilting quality of Patrick’s voice made it sound like the former. Besides, that voice could convince Joe to wrestle a tiger or jump out of an airplane without a parachute. 

Patrick shook his head. “There’s nothing you can do, no.” He sighed deeply, staring at the wall. It was clear that he was finished talking. Quick, Joe told himself, bring him back.

“Look, I... I know this really isn’t the first thing on your mind right now, but I just wanted to know...” he trailed off, but he had already reclaimed Patrick’s attention. “Well I just... do you wanna, like... I don’t know...”  
Patrick raised his eyebrows, perplexed. Great, Joe thought. Way to fuck everything up. Again. “Y’know what? Never mind.” He dropped his shoulders, and went back to picking at the loose thread on his sleeves. At this point, his entire left sleeve was beginning to unravel. 

Patrick cocked his head to the left like a puppy. “What?”  
“Nothing. It was a stupid question.” Joe plopped down next to Patrick on the bed, leaning on one arm. Patrick shifted to face him. Then, out of absolutely nowhere, Patrick lifted his arm and began to play with Joe’s hair. 

“Wh—“ Joe’s eyes widened, and a lump formed in his throat. “What’re you—“  
“Oh,” Patrick said, retracting his hand quickly, “Sorry. I—“ he giggled to himself; strange, since he had been so worried just a second before, “I know it’s kind of weird, but ever since I met you, I’ve wanted to touch your hair.”  
“I get that a lot, actually.” A grin began to form on Joe’s lips. After a moment’s pause, he tilted his head forward. “Go ahead.”  
“What?”  
“Touch it.”

Patrick reached for Joe a second time, but now he placed his fingers on his chin, lifting his face so that Joe was looking him in the eyes. Joe’s breathing instantly became shallow, and his heart was skipping every single beat. It wasn’t even beating anymore. It was soaring. A million years of tension later, their lips met again. 

Patrick threw his arms around Joe’s neck, finally running his fingers through the corkscrew curls. He stopped caring about Heaven. He had paradise right here. 

Joe lay down now, still holding onto Patrick like his life depended on it. Patrick began lifting the hem of Joe’s shirt, wriggling it off of his torso. Joe began to tug at Patrick’s hoodie in return, reaching under it to touch his back. His fingers grazed the feathers, which shrank back ever so slightly at his touch. Finally, the kiss broke.  
“Oh...” Joe said, turning red once again. “Should I just... uh... avoid those?“  
“Are you okay making out with a fuckin’ bird man now?” Patrick teased.  
Joe pulled him closer as a response, his eyes sparkling. 

Kisses on lips, necks, cheeks, foreheads. Kisses on hands, arms, chests, thighs. The whole place could’ve been on fire, and neither Joe nor Patrick would’ve moved from that bed. Time stopped moving, but it slipped through their grasping fingers like sand. It didn’t matter. Nothing did. 

In fact, Joe was starving when they had finally become exhausted, but God him—sorry— themself couldn’t have asked him to let go of Patrick (and, at this point, he very well might have). If They were going to drag Patrick to Hell, Joe swore, They’d have to drag him down there too. 

Patrick’s head rested on Joe’s bare chest, and his arm lay wrapped around his waist. The gentle thud-thud of his heart served as the only clock— a source of anxiety and consolation simultaneously. Patrick looked up at Joe, who was already staring down at him. 

“They gonna take you tomorrow?”  
“Maybe. I don’t know.”  
“I won’t let Them.”  
“You can’t stop Them.”  
Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud.  
“Hey,” Patrick asked, “what was it you were going to ask me earlier?”  
“Oh,” Joe examined the ceiling intently. “It was nothing.”  
“No it wasn’t. What were you going to ask me?”  
“I was just going to ask... well... I was going to ask if you like me. Like, like-like me.”  
Silence.  
“Like, love me.”  
More silence.  
“It’s stupid. You don’t have to answer.”  
“I think you already know the answer, Joe.”  
“Do I?”  
“Yeah,” said Patrick, kissing his collarbone, “you do.”  
Joe reached for Patrick’s wings, anxious to change the subject. He began to stroke the iridescent citrus-colored feathers absentmindedly.  
“These’re soft.”  
“I might lose ‘em.”  
“Really?”  
“I might lose everything.”  
“Well,” Joe said, “if tomorrow’s judgement day, I’m glad I got to spend today with you.”  
“Yeah. Me too.”


	8. La Crainte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shortened chapter, as Chapters 8+9 go together!

Joe bolted upright, drenched in frigid sweat. A dull throb pounded away inside his skull, pressing on the backs of his eyes. He glanced over to his right. The covers lay rumpled and disturbed, as if they had been quickly cast aside. Patrick was gone. Joe pressed his palms to his temples. He felt his lungs contract, as if they were being wrung out like a wet towel. A pile of glass shards accumulated in his stomach. Patrick was fine, he told himself. He was perfectly fine. He’d probably just gone back to his place. No, he’d never even been here at all. He wasn’t an angel, and everything had just been a strange fever dream. That’s all, just a dream. 

Joe told himself this over and over and over and over, that it was just a dream, that Patrick was just a normal guy and they barely even knew each other, but he couldn’t shake the truth, however twisted, from his brain. He was in love with another dude, who just so happened to be an angel, and was currently being put on trial by God themself for the meaningless rules he broke. And it was all Joe’s fault.

Reaching for his flip-phone, Joe rummaged through his brain to find Pete’s number. The click-click-click of the keyboard and pixelated ringing made his headache worse. It was like he was hung over on love, he thought to himself, and then he frantically searched for a pen to write those words down. 

Then, from the other end of the phone, a disgruntled voice: “Joe? What’s up?”  
“Pete,” Joe breathed, relieved to be speaking to someone, “I’m... I’m sorry, I know it’s early—“  
“It’s alright. I wasn’t sleeping anyways.”  
“Oh.” Joe furrowed his brow. What was Pete doing up at 5:23 in the morning? “Ok, well then... I just... I’m having a little bit of a problem right now and... can I come over?”  
“Dude. It’s...” Pete paused to check the time “It’s 5:23 in the fucking morning. The sun isn’t even up yet, and you don’t have a car.”  
“Pete, listen. I’ll really owe you on this one. I’ll pay for your meals for a week. Two weeks. A month. Just... please.” On the last word, Joe let himself slip. His voice cracked while he attempted to stop the tears from welling up in his eyes.  
Silence on the other end. Then, Pete’s voice returned, full of concern.  
“Dude, are you, like, okay? You seem pretty fucked up... are you smoking right now?”  
“No,” Joe replied, although he had honestly begun to consider it. “Can I just please come over?”  
“You stay where you are. I’ll come to you.” Joe leaned his head against the wall and ran his fingers through his hair— a tic he had noticed he’d picked up from Patrick. “Thank you,” he said, “I owe you one.”  
“Hey, don’t worry about it man,” Pete said, uncharacteristically gently, “That’s what friends are for, right?”  
Joe squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out any incoming light from the rising sun. “Yeah,” he said blankly, “Right.” 

Exactly twenty-seven minutes later, Pete and Joe sat in a cloud of smoke in Joe’s living room. Being straightedge, Pete wasn’t smoking, but he certainly had ingested some second-hand smoke and had become more goofy than usual. Joe knew that weed wasn’t the way to deal with the problem he faced, if one could even call it a problem, but he just wanted the bad feelings to leave him alone for a while. But the drugs didn’t work either, at least not as much as he would have liked. Every time Joe looked over at Pete, for a split second he saw Patrick. Maybe he has trained his brain to expect the pale skin, the rosy cheeks, the blush-colored lips, the sandy hair. But every time he blinked, Patrick’s gentleness disappeared and Pete sat in his place, with his sharp edges and snarky demeanor. Joe’s ice blue eyes became misty and dull and distant with worry. 

“Dude,” Pete giggled, “what the fuck’s wrong with you? Did your girlfriend break up with you or something?”  
“Not funny, Pete.”  
“So she did? What was her name again... Sue... Susan? Samantha?”  
“You mean Sarah? I broke up with her like a year ago.”  
“No, asshole, she broke up with you!” Pete was leaned back on the couch, his arms outstretched all the way to take up as much space as possible.  
“Whatever.” Joe crossed his arms. “Same thing.”  
“No, she broke up with you. Not the other way ‘round.”  
“Would you just shut the fuck up please?”  
“Not ‘til you tell me what’s wrong.” Pete gave Joe a playful shove, causing Joe to scowl and turn away.  
“Look, even if I could tell you, you wouldn’t believe me.”  
“Try me.”  
“No.”  
“Joe,” Pete cooed in an obnoxiously saccharine voice, “tell papa what’s wrong.”  
“Dude! What the fuck is wrong with you? I said I’m not going to tell you, and I’m not going to fucking tell you! So give it a goddamn rest, ok?” Joe threw himself off the couch, accidentally flinging the cigarette across the room in the process. He ran over to where it had landed, stomping out the sparks that it had already begun to create on the carpet with his bare foot.  
Pete sat very still now, hands folded in his lap. His dark eyes were wide, staring directly at Joe, and his brows were raised. His lips formed that tiny pout that he only did when he was genuinely upset.  
He blinked slowly in resignation.  
“Dude, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you freak like that. I was trying to help, that’s all.”  
Joe grabbed at his curls again and sighed deeply. He could finally see how girls fell all over themselves for those eyes, that pout.  
“I know.” He ambled back over to the couch, sinking down once again next to Pete. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I’m just... really worried right now.” 

He buried his face in his hands, then lifted it to turn and look at his friend. “Someone I... really care about is... is in a lot of trouble right now. And there’s nothing I can do about it, and it’s driving me fucking crazy because I can’t even talk to hi—I mean, them. And it’s my fault. God, it’s all my fault!” Finally, he couldn’t contain himself anymore. Tears ran steadily down his cheeks as he sobbed out those final words. He re-buried his face in his hands, letting the tears fall freely and drip down his wrists, then his forearms, leaving dark saline circles on his jeans. 

Suddenly, Joe felt a pair of arms wrap around his shivering torso. He lifted his bloodshot eyes to find Pete holding him, concern reading plainly on his face.  
Despite himself, he wrapped his arms around Pete in return and sobbed into his shoulder. Pete grew very stiff, clearly uncomfortable, but Joe didn’t care. He needed someone right now, and Pete had unwittingly volunteered to be that someone until Patrick got back. If he was ever coming back.


	9. Reckoning Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy End-of-Hiatus Day! In celebration, here’s Chapter 9! Comments and kudos are always highly appreciated!

Patrick had been in Joe’s bed, and then he hadn’t been. He remembered the time on the clock next to Joe’s bed: 5:22 am. He remembered staring at Joe right before They’d taken him, wanting so badly to wake him up and kiss him one last time. He remembered leaning in, breaths labored and anxious, inches from his face. After that, he remembered nothing. 

Heaven, Patrick noticed for the first time, looked exactly like a human would expect it to. It was bright, but not in the way brightness was on Earth. This type of brightness was unnatural, bizarre. The light seemed to emanate from everywhere and everything at once. Hulking columns stood in a semicircle, supporting nothing but clouds. And everything was gilded, from the desks to the thrones to the gates that towered in front of Patrick. Other angels rushed about, those who had them clutching their halos and looking awfully concerned about one thing or another. He hadn’t seen the place in some two thousand years, and it hadn’t changed at all. Resentment bubbled up in his stomach.

Then, a voice that sounded like chiming bells came from Patrick’s left side: 

“Ah, yes. זמר, מביא אור. Haven’t seen you in, what, a couple millennia?” Patrick wasn’t used to hearing his given name, and it took him a few seconds to realize that the smug-looking cherub was speaking to him. 

“You’ve been having lots of fun on Earth, I presume?” the bell-voiced angel smirked. “I can just imagine all the good you’ve been doing down there. We all know the people need it, yes?” 

Patrick examined the offender. They wore traditional cream-colored Seraphic robes (which he himself had always found extremely itchy) and sported the typical bare feet. Their chocolate eyes perfectly complimented their mahogany skin, and their dark curls bounced gracefully as they bobbed their head and displayed their stunningly white teeth. They made Patrick feel, quite simply, like the ugliest, most useless angel on the cloud.  
“Not much to say, for once?” crooned the angel. “That’s alright. I’m מאהב ורדים. I’ll be replacing you on Earth. Assuming that you become... you know. The F word.”

Patrick crossed his arms and scowled. “If you’re so much holier than me, then why don’t you just say the word? You do think you’re holier than me, don’t you?” 

מאהב ורדים laughed, producing a sound reminiscent of gold coins jingling in the pockets of the rich. “Fiery, aren’t you? Well, I suppose we’ll leave that question for Them to decide. Now follow me, and please take that... thing off of your head”. 

They waved a lazy finger at Patrick’s Cubs cap, which he reluctantly removed. He didn’t want to get in more trouble than he was already in. The other angels halted their hectic endeavors to watch the two pass. Indeed, with his modern clothing and messy hair, Patrick stuck out like a sore thumb— or, more accurately, an entire sore hand.

“I really can’t wait to pick up where you left off,” מאהב ורדים grinned back at Patrick as they strode past rows upon rows of gold-and-marble pillars, “I’m sure I’ll have a lot of work to do, but I always enjoy a challenge.”  
Patrick mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “Well, fuck you too”. 

Now, the pair had come into a clearing. The light was especially bright here, causing Patrick to squint and cover his eyes with his arm. A radiant golden circle was carved into the floor, and out of the center sprouted a massive laurel tree. The Tree of Life, Patrick remembered. His frustration dissipated and was replaced with pure fear. Underneath the tree stood Them, or rather, Their Advocate. Since They were everything, and everything was Them, They needed to channel their voice through another being. Patrick and The Advocate had a rough history over the past few years, to put it mildly, and Their pure white robes filled him with a deep-seated and unparalleled dread. 

After a brief eternity, The Advocate’s eyes opened; they were hollow like the void and stood in stark contrast to the lively eyes of the surrounding seraphs. They began to speak. “זמר, מביא אור” They bellowed, causing Patrick to shrink back in his skin, “You have committed an inexcusable infraction of the Seraphic Code. You destroyed your protective eyewear, ignored our most central rules, and allowed a mortal to fall in love with you.”  
At least They always got straight to the point, Patrick thought. 

“This is what happens when you disregard the Code. Mortals must now perish at your expense.” Patrick suddenly saw Joe, shaking in someone’s—maybe Pete’s?— arms. 

Patrick’s eyes widened, desperation clawing at his heart. “Wait!” he cried, rushing forward towards the Tree. “Don’t hurt him!” An invisible force thrust Patrick to his knees, freezing his attempts to struggle forward. In the process, it tore the hoodie from his back, revealing his wings— the wings he had held in such shameful regard on Earth. 

“Don’t hurt him!” Patrick screamed, “Don’t hurt him!” Tears of anguish began to roll down his face. Patrick stopped struggling against the force. He put all his energy into his cries. “Please!” he wailed, “Please don’t hurt him! I’d do anything! Do anything to me! Just... please!” 

Patrick saw Joe again. Now, red tears began to trickle down the human boy’s face. Pete looked up at him in alarm, saying something urgently. “No!” Patrick’s shrieks were blood-curdling now. “No! Stop! Kill me! Let me die! Just don’t hurt him!” 

Joe wiped a bloody tear from his face, and Patrick watched his eyes widen in terror. The icy blue eyes in shock, the chocolate curls atop his head looking more like a rat’s nest than actual hair, the puffy red circles around his eyes, his skin pale and ill-looking, his hands trembling. It was all too much for Patrick. He still saw the awkward boy from the bookstore bickering with his friend about Neurosis. He still heard himself interrupt, he still heard Joe ask if he wanted to join the band. He still saw Joe grin and extend his hand. He still heard his name, Patrick, come from the boy’s mouth in the most wonderful way he’d ever heard it said. Joe was dying, and it was his fault. And it was too much. It was all too much.

Patrick let out the most horrifying scream ever heard by anyone, ethereal or otherwise. It sounded of pure death and destruction and loss and failure and fear and gore and hatred. A ring of light erupted from his body as all of his heavenly power escaped him. He felt a searing pain, like hellfire, spread across his skin. He went blind. In that moment, Patrick saw, heard, and felt nothing and everything simultaneously. He crumpled to the ground.

When Patrick’s eyes opened again, his limbs were as heavy as boulders. His skin had lost its luminous quality, and his eyes had become tired and dull. His back stung as if a million knives had scraped his skin. With his fingers, he gingerly probed at the two fleshy stumps that sat where his wings had been.


	10. Heartbeat (Kids Like Us)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When last we saw Patrick, he’d just paid a serious price for his infraction of the Seraphic Code. But will the punishment get worse?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy freaking cow! We just hit 100 kudos on the fic and 200 followers on our blog, so here’s Chapter 10! We love you all very much, and we hope you enjoy!

And just like that, as if nothing had ever happened at all, Patrick was in his apartment. The same clothes were scattered haphazardly on the floor in the same places, the same pile of mail sat, waiting, on his bed from when Joe had come to return his glasses, and the same half of the bedspread lay rumpled and undisturbed from when he had torn it off to greet the boy. The boy who he had kissed. The boy who he had fallen in love with, who he had lain with and kissed over and over and over again. The boy who he had held on to for dear life. The boy who he had killed. 

The only thing that was different was him. His back was naked now, empty of the weight which it had carried for thousands of years. The wings had carried him through millennia, and through the sky on a few occasions. Now, they were gone in the snap of fingers and the blink of a seafoam green eye. Patrick would’ve been glad to be rid of them if he didn’t also have to be rid of the one thing he really cared about. 

But maybe, just maybe, They had taken mercy on him. Maybe They were benevolent, like the humans always said They were, and prevented collateral damage. Maybe They had spared Joe. Patrick scrambled for his phone, tearing off the duvet and digging through his dirty sheets. One pillow smacked the wall, while the other went flying in an upward trajectory towards the ceiling. He plunged his hand into the space between his bed and the wall and wiggled his fingers desperately. He touched, to his relief, the cool, palm-sized, metal object, and yanked it from its hiding spot. In the process, however, his finger got snagged on the metal frame, ripping a sliver of skin from his finger and causing blood to ooze onto the carpet. Fuck. Patrick sucked on the digit while he dialed Joe’s number with one hand— a harder endeavor than one might think, even for an ethereal being. He did have to hand it to the humans, though, this cell phone thing was a really clever idea. 

The phone rang endlessly. The dullness of the dial tone made Patrick want to puke, and the strangling sense of anxiety thrashing about within him sure as hell didn’t help. Finally, Joe’s voice:  
“Hi!”  
“Joe!” Patrick breathed a sigh of joyous relief “I’m so glad you’re ok! I—“  
Joe interrupted him: “You’ve reached Joe Trohman. I’m away from the phone right now, so just leave a message after the beep. Or don’t.” That mischievous giggle from Joe, and then a shrill beep. 

Patrick’s premature relief was quickly drowned again by swirling fear, twisting like a whirlpool in his gut. He dropped the phone.  
“Oh no. Oh God, no. You can’t have fucking done this to me. You can’t have done this to me.” A steel ball formed in Patrick’s throat. “Don’t do this to me please, Joe, just call back. Just fucking call back.”  
Patrick dialed again.  
“Hi! You’ve reached Joe Tro—“  
Click. Again.  
“Hi! You’ve reach—“  
Click. Again.  
“Hi!”  
Click. Patrick’s fingers were trembling now, a cold sweat washing over him, and he held his breath as he dialed for the final time.  
“Hi! You’ve reached Joe Trohman.”  
Patrick let out a frustrated cry, tossing the phone down on to the bed in aggressive resignation. He sat there, glaring at the phone, blaming the goddamn piece of shit for not letting him speak to Joe. For not letting him make sure he was safe. For not letting him explain what had happened in Heaven. For not letting him tell the boy he was alive.

Wait, he reminded himself, he’d seen Pete in his vision as well. Pete had been in Joe’s apartment, sitting with him while he’d been crying. Maybe he was still there, or at the very least, maybe he knew where Joe was.  
Patrick dialed the number. 

“Hello?” came a gruff voice from the other line.  
“Pete?”  
“Yeah, that’s me.”  
“Hey Pete, it’s Patrick. Listen, I was—“  
“Oh, hey Patrick! What’s up dude?”  
“Yeah, uh, I’m... well, I’m fine. Do you happen to know where Joe is?”  
“Joe? Nah, man. Sorry. I left his place like four hours ago.”  
“Was he okay?”  
“Huh?”  
“Was he okay? When you were there, I mean?”  
“Yeah, he was really broken up about something. I mean really fucking upset, but he wouldn’t tell me why. Other than that, though, he was fine. Why?”  
Patrick ignored the question. “Was there anything else wrong?”  
“Well, I mean— hey, why do you ask?”  
“Cause... uh... cause he texted me” Patrick heard himself lie. “And I just got the text and I want to make sure he’s alright. He seemed really upset, just like you said. But he isn’t answering his phone, so, uh... so I called you. To make sure he’s ok. Cause he’s my... friend.”  
“Um, ok. But if I tell you what happened you gotta promise not to tell anyone else. And definitely don’t tell Joe that I told you. He probably doesn’t want people knowing about his medical shit.”  
“Yeah, ok. Fine.” Patrick sighed, the anxiety pushing harder on his lungs. “What happened to Joe?”  
“Well, he started crying blood. Like blood tears. It was freaky.”  
“I kn— I mean... That’s terrible!” Patrick was hardly even acting anymore. His entire body had gone numb.  
“Yeah,” said Pete, “I think he burst a blood vessel in his tear duct from crying or something.”  
“Yeah, anything else?”  
“After that he said he was really tired and told me he was gonna go lay down, so I left.”  
“And you don’t know where he is?”  
“Probably at his house sleeping, if I had to guess. Look, Patrick, why are you so worried about this anyway? I—“  
“Ok thanks Pete. Bye!”  
Click.

Patrick didn’t have time for dramatic sighs and flingings of extremities anymore. He threw a hoodie— a backup, as he’d lost his favorite in Heaven— on his back. He needed to get to Joe right now. There was only one problem: his wallet was at Joe’s house, and he lived halfway across the city. Patrick had no car, and no cash to get where he needed so desperately to go. So, he did what any lovesick former-angel whose boyfriend was dying would do. He ran. 

Patrick raced down the sidewalks, Converse thudding against the pavement in time with his heartbeat with every panicked stride. Pedestrians swerved like football players out of his path, grumbling at him with the occasional expletive mixed in. Patrick had never been the athletic type— he was often reminded of this when he had lived in Athens Before the Common Era— but the adrenaline and norepinephrine and oxytocin coursing through his veins helped him ignore his exhaustion. He flew through the streets of suburban Chicago as if a ravenous lion were chasing him, his hair flopping against his head in the chilly autumn breeze and his cheeks flushed bright pink. Cars slammed their breaks and pounded their horns at him, but he didn’t care. Nothing else mattered but getting to Joe. 

Finally, after just over half an hour, Patrick arrived at Joe’s apartment building. He was totally out of breath, and his lungs stung with the pricking pins of deoxygenation. His entire face was bright red, and he was wheezing like he was going into anaphylactic shock. Despite the cool weather, sweat had pooled under his arms, soaking through his hoodie, and had poured down his back and face. He ignored the buzzer system, sprinting up the stairs to Apartment 22C. He pounded on the door with both hands, too overcome with emotion to realize it was nine thirty in the morning on a Sunday and he might be disturbing the neighbors.

“Joe! Joe!” he clamored. “Joe, please!”  
He wrestled with the doorknob, fingers slipping from a hideous mix of sweat and panic. “Joe!”

By the grace of Them, Pete must have absentmindedly left the door unlocked when he’d departed. Patrick thrusted it open and screamed for Joe again. He ran into the kitchen, desperately wishing to see Joe sitting there with a cup of coffee and headphones on. No Joe. He searched the living room. No Joe. He ran into Joe’s bedroom. No Joe. Finally, he cracked open the door to the bathroom, where he came face to face with his worst nightmare.

Joe lay in a heap, arms bent at unnatural angles straight off of a crime show, curly hair spraying out hectically in all directions. It looked as if someone had crumpled him up into a ball like scrap paper and thrown him full-force at the tile floor. The worst part, however, was the crimson stains that lined his tear ducts, his nostrils, and the corners of his mouth. A singular drop of blood rolled from his lips, trailing down the side of his neck and soaking into his shirt. His crystal-blue eyes were glassy and lifeless, staring up at the ceiling with a look of unbridled terror. 

“Joe...” Patrick whispered, his voice was sucked out of him by grief. Tears—luckily, saline ones—welled up in his own eyes. He fell to his knees with a thud, but he didn’t care about the resulting pain that began to sear across his kneecaps. He was already in enough pain as it was.

He traced the bloodstains on Joe’s cold, pallid face with his thumbs. “Joe,” he whispered again, voice cracking, “I’m so sorry.” He pressed his forehead to his. He needed to touch him for just a little while longer, just a few more seconds with the boy he loved before he had to say goodbye. A tear glided down Patrick’s face, landing on Joe’s cheek. Then another, and another, until Patrick was full-on sobbing. 

“It’s my fault,” Patrick stuttered through the droplets, which were now collecting on Joe’s skin. “I should’ve known better. I should’ve known that ... that it would end up this way. But I didn’t, or maybe ... maybe I just didn’t care. And now you’re dead and it’s my fault.”  
He placed his hands on Joe’s chest, which was just as unmoving and lifeless as the rest of him. He remembered resting his head on that chest before he was taken, and listening to Joe’s heartbeat. In that moment, it was the only constant, the only good thing in the world, and now it was gone. 

Hunched over in praying position, foreheads pressed together, wailing like he had never cried before, Patrick failed to notice Joe inhale shallowly. 

 

“Patrick?” A dry, exhausted voice croaked. Patrick lifted his head quickly from Joe’s, astonished at the sound of his name. He stared, mouth agape, at the spark that had flickered back into those ice-blue eyes, causing them to squint and blink. Joe groaned, wincing as he tried to move his head. He gasped— the sort of gasp that someone who hadn’t been breathing for the past two hours would make.  
“Oh God, Joe. I thought... I thought I’d...”  
“You’re alive!”  
“So are you!”  
Joe’s dry lips slowly, painstakingly stretched into a gentle grin. “It takes a little more than... whatever the fuck just happened to kill a kid like me.”  
“Yeah, well, apparently it takes a little more than God Themself to kill kids like us.”  
Nothing else needed to be said. Patrick pressed his lips to Joe’s, at long, long last.


	11. Starting Over (Finale)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a wild ride! Thank you all so much for joining us on this trip, and we hope you enjoy this final chapter. Please read the end notes for an epilogue!

The second he heard the knock, Patrick was scrambling to the door. He grinned with boyish anticipation as the chipped wood revealed Joe with a similar expression; icy eyes alight with unbridled joy.  
“Hi,” Patrick said, folding his sweaty hands behind his back.  
“Hi,” Joe responded, wasting no time in embracing his boyfriend. After turning a familiar shade of apple red, Patrick returned the hug, squeezing Joe tight. He slid his arms underneath the guitar case strapped to Joe’s back and pressed his head to the other boy’s chest. In that moment, everything was perfect, and then it wasn’t. He couldn’t help but focus on Joe’s heartbeat pounding away steadily next to his cheek, and suddenly they were back on the floor of the bathroom, blood rolling from Joe’s lips and tear ducts. He pulled away abruptly, causing Joe to stiffen up. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Patrick stuttered, “I just...”  
“No, no, I’m sorry.” Joe showed his palms in resignation. “If that makes you uncomfortable, let me know. I’m still figuring out this whole boyfriend thing.”

That word escaping Joe’s lips made Patrick’s own curl into a broad smile. “It doesn’t make me uncomfortable! I just was thinking back to... y’know, the thing, and I just... I just got a little freaked out.”  
“Oh.” Joe shrunk back into himself for a second, then promptly shook it off. “Well, I’m fine now, so don’t you worry about me.”

“Good,” said Patrick, relieved to be done with the topic that so distressed him. “Anyways, come in!”  
Joe obliged, walking into the living room, gently propping his guitar up on the wall, and spreading himself out on the couch in typical Trohman fashion. Patrick sat next to him, floating down into his seat. The pair stared each other down for a few seconds in stifling silence before Patrick nuzzled into Joe’s shoulder. Joe looked down at him, then wrapped his right arm around Patrick’s back. Ever since the events of last month, everything had become new again. It was like they were two robots who just met, and were desperately trying to figure out how one another worked. 

Joe still had to get used to the feeling—or lack thereof, he supposed— of Patrick’s wing stubs jutting from his shoulder-blades. In fact, Patrick’s back had been extremely sensitive for the first few weeks after the “thing”, as they referred to it, almost as if he’d gotten surgery and his wounds were still healing. Despite all this, everything was perfect, or at least they were working on making it that way. 

“What time are Pete and his friend coming over?” asked Patrick, looking up at Joe.  
“I told him to come over in, like, an hour,” said Joe, glancing down at his watch, “I just wanted to hang out with you for a little while before then.”

Patrick couldn’t stop himself from emitting a little giggle, like the kind that grade-schoolers make when they’re thinking about their crush; almost mouse-like in tone. The sound, so odd and unexpected, launched both into a laughing fit of epic proportions. They flopped over, throwing themselves across the couch in hysterical tears. The noise wasn’t terribly funny at all; if you’d heard it, the most you would have done was snicker, but no one could have told them that. The tension they shared, the unbreakable bond they’d formed from enduring death together, the awkward yet heart-wrenching love they held for each other— it all came to a head in this moment. 

After the pair had rubbed their teary eyes and calmed their exhausted lungs, they readjusted themselves on the couch. The laughter had melted all the stiff, teenager-y awkwardness that still somewhat separated them. Patrick pressed his nose to Joe’s, which had become their nonverbal language for “Can I kiss you?”. Joe beamed before accepting. He leaned in, nibbling at Patrick’s lower lip gently and thinking of absolutely nothing else. Patrick lifted his arms to run his hands through Joe’s hair, simultaneously laying down on the sofa as Joe quickly followed suit. As both of their breathing became labored and intense, there was a sharp knock at the door, followed by an exclamation: “Hey, it’s us!”

The electricity was now shattered completely, but neither Joe nor Patrick were too angry about it. Both had individually planned to ask the other to stay the night, and both had individually accepted each other’s offers. 

“I thought they were gonna be over in an hour,” Patrick said as he hastily rose and trotted over to open the door.  
“They were,” protested Joe, “and Pete’s never been early for anything in his life!” Of course, Joe thought to himself, Pete had decided to show up just as he was about to get some. Classic Pete.  
Joe shot up off the couch, racing over to unpack his guitar in the hopes that Pete wouldn’t suspect anything. Pete had been on his case since the thing, and although it was endearing, Joe couldn’t tell him what had happened. He felt guilty for hiding something from his friend, but Joe just wasn’t ready to tell him the story. At least, not yet. 

Patrick pulled his cap on, then opened the door. “Hey!” he said brightly, as if nothing at all had been going on beforehand. “Hey, dude,” said Pete, reaching around to clap him on the back. This is my friend Andy. He said he’d play drums for us”. Andy was a fairly short guy, with rust-red hair flowing in loose waves down to his chin. He had a labret piercing, a metal stud that made him look even more punk rock than his all-black ensemble made him out to be. He was covered in tattoos, with two full sleeves and both of his legs completely inked. Even more punk rock than the tattoos and piercings, though, was the fact that he was wearing shorts in the middle of November. Just as he did with all new people, Patrick felt optimistically anxious, like a fish was struggling for air in his gut. 

“Hi Andy!” he responded cheerily. “Come on in, you guys! Joe’s already here.”  
“Hey,” Andy responded in an unfittingly gentle voice, holding out his hand. Patrick shook it, shooting Joe a quick what-the-fuck glance before returning to his smiley disposition.  
“Hey man,” Pete said, grinning down at Joe. “What happened to your hair?”  
“What?” Joe reached up, noticing that the top of his head was sticking up in tufts from Patrick’s fingers. “Oh,” he mumbled, “it’s... uh... really windy.” 

In fact, the day was only slightly breezy for Chicago autumn, but Pete took it as an acceptable answer. “Ok dude,” he said slyly, “Whatever you say.” He gave Joe an exaggerated wink before crouching down next to him to unpack his bass. Patrick lugged his acoustic out of his bedroom while Andy put together the portable drum set that was slung over his shoulder. The four chatted nonchalantly about their interests— Patrick quickly expressed his love for drums to Andy, who apparently reciprocated that love more than anyone he’d ever met. Meanwhile, Pete detailed his most recent adventure to Joe: a wild and hardly believable tale of how the cops raided an Arma show because some coke dealers had shown up. “I was just standing on the stage, dude,” he explained, “Swear to God I’ve never seen anything so fucking crazy in my life!” 

The rehearsal lasted longer than any previous band rehearsal any of them had been to. As a group, they all agreed they had a special chemistry, or a “really cool spark”, as Andy had referred to it. “I’ve done a lot of bands before,” he’d explained as they were taking a break, “but, I don’t know, you guys are just really special.” Everyone was naturally comfortable around each other— everyone except for Patrick. 

As they played, Patrick’s back began to ache. He ignored it, thinking that it was just Them getting their final kick out of Patrick for continuing to play music; just one last middle finger of holy light. As the rehearsal progressed, however, his back throbbed worse and worse, until he had to excuse himself. He went to the bathroom to get some painkillers. He really had to stop sleeping on his back, he told himself, rubbing his neck; those wing stubs were real murder on the spine. Having locked the bathroom door, he lifted his shirt and turned around, expecting to see that the scabs on his shoulder blades hadopened back up. Instead, his head swiveled to behold what he thought for a second was a hallucination. Right there, in front of his own two eyes, feeble, bony sprouts stuck out from his skin. Hanging delicately off of the tip of the right one, fluttering in the ceiling fan’s humming breeze, was a single clementine feather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue:  
> Fall Out Boy, officially formed in 2001, became a Grammy-nominated global sensation. Soon after the release of Take This To Your Grave, Fall Out Boy’s first studio album, Patrick’s wings fully grew back. Their music, which saved the lives of thousands of people struggling with hardships and mental illness, earned Patrick his halo. He continues to wear his halo in the form of a gold ring, but successfully appealed to Them to get his wings permanently removed in 2005. However, Patrick keeps one feather in a drawer by his bed to remind him of his origins.


End file.
